


what were the executive directors thinking?

by nantes (titians)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 19:21:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6718474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titians/pseuds/nantes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As is tradition, the best man and the maid of honour hook up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what were the executive directors thinking?

> _ I'm fuckin' with you, cutie q! _  
>  _ What's your dick like, homie; _  
>  _ What are you into; _  
>  _ What's the run, dude? _
> 
> **_2 1 2 ,_  A Z E A L I A  B A N K S**
> 
>  
> 
> “You will meet a tall, dark stranger and he will fuck your shit up. We don't know why, some kind of cosmic joke. It is terrifying how little you will be able to control yourself.”
> 
> **_Y O U R  L A T E S T  H O R O S C O P E_** ,   **C L E M E N T I N E  V O N  R A D I C S**
> 
>  
> 
> **( + 4 4 ) :**  i'm not 100% on this, but i'm pretty sure i just accidently talked my way into a threesome with the maid of honour and best man.  
> 

 

 

**1.**  


 

Orange water swirls down the plughole. Oliver dabs at the stain with the tissue again but really, it doesn't fucking matter. His date has already gone. Marcus claps a hand on his back and tells him, "I don't have to do it tonight if you'd like."

Oliver's brows wrinkle together.

"Why would you not do it tonight? Cos of _me_?" He laughs and bows his head to look at the stain. The light in the bathroom is too low to say if it's fully gone or not. "Mate, why would you give a fuck about me right now?"

Marcus rolls his eyes.

If it were anyone else, Oliver would tell them to fuck off. Then again, if it _were_ anyone else, they wouldn't be standing beside Oliver in a restaurant bathroom dabbing Bolognese sauce from his tie with damp toilet roll after leaving his soon-to-be fiancée standing at the bar alone, so he owes Marcus that much. "Really, if you need to go cry and drink beer tonight instead of me doing this, just say the words," Marcus states.

"Not a chance."

They catch each other's eyes and share a smile. 

Marcus asks, "Wanna talk about it at all?" And the best Oliver can give him is a shrug. He doesn't. Not really. It's sweet of Marcus to ask. But his date leaving wasn't that upsetting. It was a second date but that still not enough for Oliver to be too badly burnt by it. She left; Oliver will have another drink at the bar, Daphne will fuss over him, Marcus will propose to her, and Oliver's missing date will not be missed. Life will go on. But Marcus still waits, halted, like he's expecting Oliver to cry.

(Oliver has never cried about a breakup, significant or otherwise, he isn't about to start in this restaurant bathroom.)

Being as good of a best friend as Marcus is being for him, Oliver places his hand on Marcus' shoulder, leaving the stained tissue on the edge of the sink. He's not sure if he has turned off the tap fully. "C'mon," he grins, directing Marcus towards the door. "Let's go get your girl."

His tie is most definitely still stained.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**2.**

 

"He asked me to marry him!"

It's four in the morning according to the quick glance Pansy got of her phone screen before she answered Daphne.

"I can't believe he asked!"

Pansy lies back on her pillows, letting her friend's voice wash over her as she trills on and on about it. When Daphne pauses for breath, Pansy slips in, "Congratulations, Red." She yawns and tries not to fall back to sleep as Daphne continues to rabbit on and on about the night.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**3.**

 

Six months ago Daphne named Pansy her maid of honour. 

Four months ago the save the date notes were sent out, followed by the invitations two months later. In all that time, no one heard a word from her, just odd bits of gossip from Blaise and Persimmon, once or twice from Astoria. But nothing solid enough to say she was coming or not.

Yet, Daphne has refused to name anyone else her maid of honour. Much to the chagrin of her younger sister.

A week ago, a betting pool was started between the groomsmen on how late Daphne would leave it before being forced to name Astoria her maid of honour because Pansy never turned up. A second one was started forty minutes after that on how graciously Astoria would accept it – Oliver's money is firmly on 'not graciously at all; Daphne will be paying for this for years'.

So when Pansy walks into the restaurant they are all meant to be meeting for dinner in, the table falls silent.

There's no dramatics to her entrance, she isn't trying to cause a scene. Just walks up to the table with a smile on her face and her phone in her hand and Astoria stops speaking mid sentence.

With a nod to a waiter, Pansy has a seat. And Daphne pounces on her, announcing, "You fucking _bitch_! Where have you been?" as she wraps her up in a hug.

Pansy has to manoeuvre her face carefully to prevent herself getting hit in the eye with a low swinging emerald earring. "Paris. I hated it." Then, as cool as anything, she asks, "Did you not get my RSVPs? I have had the date saved for months – I shouted down the phone at Persimmon for an hour after you told me I was your maid of honour."

Astoria looks like she's ready to kill someone.

Honestly, Oliver wants to applaud the whole thing. 

No one else has spoken since she arrived and Pansy ignores them all, too focused on finally seeing the engagement ring in person and filling Daphne in on some Russian she thinks is definitely trying to run forgeries through her.

 

+

 

"She looks good."

Marcus says it like Oliver has any point of reference for her other than a scared teenage girl standing in front of the rest of Hogwarts and throwing out the option of handing over Potter to the Dark Lord. Oliver doesn't know Pansy at all, not beyond the stupid, ancient gossip the rather unforgiving British press likes to spin about her and the few testimonials offered by Daphne, Astoria and, once, Marcus.

Oliver takes another mouthful of brandy and Marcus says, "But I think she's had her nose done."

"Does that matter?"

If she had a different nose before, Oliver never paid attention to it.

Marcus laughs, rumbling with his own brandy in hand. "No," he replies, "It doesn't. But I think she has."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**4.**

 

Back in Hogwarts, it was Blaise, Pansy, and Daphne.

Everyone always assumed Draco had a bigger role in their threesome than he actually did, mainly because Draco was the antithesis of Harry Potter and all anyone could focus during those seven years was Harry fucking Potter and everything relating, however tentatively, to him. But, really, Draco was never that close with the three of them.

He had Crabbe and Goyle; same way Daphne had Pansy and Blaise.

Now, as they sit on Daphne's couch, Daphne's cat _miraculously_ allowing Pansy to scratch between her ear, Daphne informs Pansy, "Did I tell you Blaise isn't coming?"

Pansy raises a brow, turning her head slowly on her neck. "I'm sorry, what?" She stops scratching the cat's head and the cat chirps. Pansy agrees. "Blaise isn't coming? Why the fuck not? If I can fucking make it, so can he."

She is personally outraged by this.

Daphne waves her hand through the air like she's swatting Pansy's words away.

"Oh, you know." Pansy doesn't. "He's just broken up with Neville and, you know, it wouldn't be fair to make him come if he doesn't want to. I understand."

"I don't."

Daphne eyes her. Her cat paws at Pansy's hand, trying to get her to go back to petting her.

Pansy scoffs. "But it's Blaise. And it's _you_ , it's us." She shakes her head and a strand of hair falls from behind her ear to her shoulder. "I barely come home anymore and I'm here."

"You don't come home anymore," Daphne agrees.

"I do for important shit like this."

"You haven't only just broken up with someone."

She counters, "You don't know that."

Daphne's eyes go a full 360 degrees in the socket. "I'd hope you'd tell me if you'd just ended a three year long relationship." Pansy neither confirms nor denies anything. Daphne sighs. "Look, leave it. I wanted you to know, that's all."

"I'll get him to come."

The wine glass in Daphne's hand stops spinning between her fingers. There is a mouthful left which Daphne drains. She looks at her friend next to her on the couch, at Pansy's own empty glass and the cat on her lap and tries to put together the most solid argument. _Really_ , Daphne is perfectly sympathetic towards Blaise's sudden disdain for happy couples; she understands completely why he doesn't want to attend her wedding. But Daphne is also well versed in arguing with Pansy. Earlier tonight, after they'd come home and Pansy had deposited her bags somewhere someone wouldn't unluckily trip over them, Daphne had attempted to convince her friend that there was no problem with her sleeping in Daphne's bed with her. But Pansy had insisted the couch was more than enough and even made it out for herself.

Daphne tries to think of what to say but draws a blank.

"Consider it a wedding gift," Pansy says, filling in the silence Daphne left between them.

"You being here is my wedding present."

"That's only a half a set," and she turns her face to look at the cat. The cat purrs back, eyes closed and content. "I will get Blaise to come."

 

+

 

Oliver has no idea why Pansy comes to him with the idea of getting Blaise to attend the wedding.

He figures it probably has something to do with the fact he's the best man. Or maybe just the fact she's three gin and tonics into the evening – Percy demanded everyone came out again since he had to miss the previous dinner where Pansy arrived unannounced, because Percy has always been bad at handling being left out of things – and Millicent just made her do tequila shots. And Oliver happens to be the closest person to her right now.

He gives her the benefit of the doubt that it's because they are _technically_ each other's significant other for the wedding situation, when she says, "Cos, you know- _you know_ , Daphne would be happy about it. Marcus would be fucking happy with her being happy about it." Pansy gestures at him, her arm drawing a loop through the air, "And that's what you and I are for. Making them fucking happy. You know?"

She talks a lot with her hands, the shapes growing wider and bigger, more dramatically drawn the more she drinks.

Oliver is really fucking endeared by it.

(For the record, he is on about the same alcohol level as Pansy. Gin isn't his drink of choice and it was only one tequila shot for him – when he attempted to go in for a second, his hand was slapped away by Millicent, a red mark now across them as proof – but he's had about the same.)

"Who else is gonna do it for them?" she asks.

"You've put a lot of thought into this." His lisp slips out accidentally.

Pansy's cheek wrinkles when she furls her lip. "Not really," she admits. "I have no idea how I'm gonna convince him, I just know I need someone to help me."

Oliver nods.

"Cos Blaise is, like. . . the only person. The only fucking person who says no to me."

She seems genuinely upset about this fact. Oliver snorts when he laughs because of course he does. He blames the alcohol. He blames it again when he finds himself staring at the freckles on Pansy's nose for too long, her mouth open as she looks at him, shocked and upset he's laughing at her.

He gives her, "I'm sorry."

Then asks, "So. What do we do?"

 

+

 

Pansy dials the number.

She doesn't remember taking it from it, but there it is, Oliver Wood's phone number programmed into her phone. And he agreed to help her make Blaise come to the wedding.

Daphne's cat rubs herself off her legs, tail brushing just under her knee. Oliver picks up just as Pansy is about to bend down and pick the cat up. His voice is gruff, "'Lo?"

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

He doesn't bother lying and Pansy appreciates that.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**5.**

 

Pansy manages to sound offended while remaining silent. Oliver is honestly super fucking impressed. He's also hung over as death and anyone having any ability to do anything above 'breathe while lying still' after imbibing as much as he did is an immortal genius being, but he doesn't mention that aloud to Pansy.

Static cracks her sentence in half but Oliver makes it out ok. She says, "What do you mean there isn't a stag party?"

"Or hen, either," he amends. Again, the silence sounds offended. "They just aren't doing one."

"Who decided this?"

Oliver sighs and rolls over. The glass of water on his nightstand feels so far away. "Well. . . Daphne wasn't sure if she was going to have one, so Marcus decided to go with that idea as well and they scrapped it." He stares at his water, willing it to him. "You know, Astoria is all snippy cos Daphne made you her maid of honour and then we weren't even sure if you were gonna turn up and then Mr Greengrass offered us the manor for. . ." His words drift to a halt.

Pansy stays silent.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**6.**

 

Marcus doesn't understand why Oliver declines the lift down to Daphne's parents' estate with the rest of the groomsmen, even after Oliver tries to explain 'I've got this thing to do with Pansy'. Percy looks surprised and Theodore calls shotgun since Oliver isn't taking the front seat of Marcus' jeep anymore.

They leave the conversation with a hug that contains too many back pats and Marcus telling him, "Thanks. For whatever it is."

Now he sits in the passenger seat of Pansy's car – "It's my brother's. Persimmon. He hates it," she had explained as she'd opened the boot for Oliver to throw his case in – and he feels weird. He feels really fucking weird about the whole thing. Next to him, Pansy seems fine, humming along with the radio as she drives.

His ice breaker, his attempt to bring his weirdness level down is:

"So, why'd you change your nose?"

Miraculously Pansy doesn't swerve the car into oncoming traffic when she whips her head around to look at Oliver, but it's a near fucking thing. Oliver grips the door handle. Her face goes through four emotions before it settles back into neutral. "You noticed."

Oliver looks away from her eyes, choosing instead to focus on her hands on the wheel. He says, "Not really. Marcus pointed it out."

Without having to look at her, he knows Pansy just rolled her eyes. Her words come out on a laugh, breathy, "Of course." She says, "Do you really want to know?"

And Oliver responds with a non-committal noise, giving Pansy the option to go where she likes with the conversation. He really was only looking to regain some normality in himself but when Pansy almost crashed the car, he now feels bad about it.

"I-"

She doesn't continue with that line.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. You don't have to answer, I was being rude."

For this, she gives him another laugh. It is louder than her first one, more solid, and Oliver smiles for it. "It's not a big deal, really. I paid a nice Czech doctor to remove the weird bit of cartilage from it for me and now it looks like this. But you asked me _why_ , and that's kinda hard to explain."

They take the next left. Oliver vaguely recognises the area.

"I guess- it reminded me too much of Hogwarts. And everything people used to say about it." Oliver watches her; Pansy keeps her eyes on the road. "It's sounds cliché but I didn't want to be reminded about that anymore so, _poof_ , weird bit of cartilage gone."

He supplies, "That's fair." With the next breath, he asks, "Different question then – why a Czech doctor?"

"I live in Prague." Pansy adds, "Mostly."

The car turns right.

"Why Prague?"

She shrugs as they wait at a red light. "Why not?" Oliver remains quiet, letting her continue without pressing for more. "I kinda settled there by accident, about seven years ago. It's beautiful; I like it there. I like my job. And I'm fluent in Czech now."

The car rumbles forwards again and Oliver asks, "Do you miss home?"

Pansy breathes for a second. She moves back in her seat, visibly needing something to lean back on before she answers. Oliver worries he's touched a nerve, ready to apologise and take it back but Pansy beats him to the punch as she answers, "Not as much as some would like me to."

 

+

 

Blaise just frowns.

"Where did you get Wood from?"

Pansy barges past Blaise without hesitation. From further down the hall, she explains, "He's best man. I'm making him work for the title."

Blaise eyes him, throwing Oliver a sympathetic look. "I'm sure he really appreciates that."

She is already in Blaise's bedroom, packing.

 

+

 

It's Blaise who asks, "So, Wood, how is Montrose treating you?"

Since they're stopped – more like _halted_ , stuck in traffic – it's safe for Pansy to look at him. She appears surprised. Oliver just shrugs. In the back seat, Blaise waits for an answer. He gets, "It's alright. The sea is a nicer sight than the marshes I had out my kitchen window before. And the people are nice enough."

They lurch forward about six inches before Pansy has to put on the brakes again.

Blaise throws out a laugh. "You won them the cup," he replies, "of course they're going to be nice."

"What's this?"

Pansy stares at the back of the yellow Fiat in front of them. There are nodding dogs along the back window. She doesn't move at all when Blaise leans forward from where he'd previously been lounging and wraps a hand around her headrest. He explains, "You are currently sitting beside a proud winner of this year's Quidditch League Cup – the Magpies won, _surprise_ ," then asks, "Do they not care about Quidditch in the Czech Republic?"

She sighs, "Not about Britain, no."

To Oliver, she says, "Congratulations on the Cup. But I thought you were in Puddlemere."

"I was."

"They traded him."

Pansy eyes him. Oliver feels judged. She coughs before she speaks, then tells him, "Congratulations for that too."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**7.**

 

Percy lip curls after he greets Blaise. Pansy doesn't ask. Mrs Greengrass hands her a vodka spritzer which she accepts with a smile, Daphne clinking her glass off Pansy's and beaming at Blaise, delighted. Pansy casts a look towards Oliver.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**8.**

 

Prior to this wedding, Oliver would not have listed 'going to the bridesmaids dresses final try-on' as part of the best man's duties but apparently this wedding has a lot more previously unknown best man duties than others – case and point: removing Blaise from his self imposed exile of pity and bringing him to the wedding weekend – and Oliver can't argue at all when faced with, _yet again_ , someone throwing at him how happy Daphne would be if he did this.

But it seems to be more Mrs Greengrass he is making happy than the bride to be.

Currently, she sits practically on top of him, while Daphne calls out, "Is everything alright back there?"

From behind the screen, Millicent's voice shouts, "My bracelet is stuck in Pansy."

"Why does mine have sleeves?" Astoria pokes her head around the edge of the screen. Her dress does indeed have sleeves from what Oliver can see. "And yeah, there are really stuck together. Millie is going to snag something."

Oliver is the first one off the couch, if only just to get away from Mrs Greengrass' intense gaze. He asks, "Is everyone descent?" before he gets to the screen, a chorus of 'Yes!' his answer, "I'm here to help."

They weren't lying. The charm from Millicent's bracelet is well and truly tangled in the green lace at the back of Pansy's dress. Her elbows stick out either side of her head from the way her arms are raised, her hands holding her hair away from her neck and the entanglement on her dress – she smiles through the gap her arm makes at Oliver as he steps to her side. Millicent looks less than impressed when he looks at her.

Pansy jumps at his touch.

Oliver says, "Sorry," but it comes out softer than he means it to, making it only Pansy's to hear.

And, as one must do when a person whispers to them, Pansy keeps their conversation at a whisper as she informs him, "Your fingers are cold."

"Sorry," he repeats.

The charm is a cat with green gems for eyes. They look like emeralds; knowing the Bulstrode family, they _are_ emeralds but Oliver doesn't want to assume. They could be plastic for all he knows. He's never been great with jewellery. Or charms, for it takes him a good minute to remove it from Pansy's lace.

Without thinking, he keeps his hand on the curve of Pansy's back the entire time he's working.

He only realises after he has finished and Daphne whines loudly, "Is _anyone_ going to come and show me the dresses?"

Astoria announces, "I can't find my other shoe!"

Oliver just looks at Pansy. 

He moves his hand, using it to motion for her to go out and show Daphne how she looks, then follows her around the screen.

Mrs Greengrass' mouth falls open in a gasp. She lifts her hand to her mouth, covering her lips in the cage of her fingers. "Oh, Pansy," she says.

Daphne rolls her eyes at her mother.

"How bad is the damage?" she asks, addressing Oliver, but it's Pansy who moves to look at it, ready to give an answer. Reflexively, he touches the spot the charm hung from – barely a thread has snagged out of it but he remembers it all the same. He answers:

"None at all."

Mrs Greengrass barges in with, "Oh, look at them, Daphne. _Look at them._ " Daphne does. Oliver doesn't look back. "They're so well matched." She resituates herself on the seat, as if changing her angle that minute fraction gives her a better view of them, and continues, "It won't stop Granny loudly enquiring every five minutes why you didn't pick Astoria as maid of honour, but they will look gorgeous in photos together." 

"I am right here!" Astoria reminds them from the other side of the screen. "And I still can't find my bloody shoe!"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**9.**

 

Pansy wants a nap. As the only member of the bridal party was absent from England for all the preparations for the wedding, Pansy was made stay back with Daphne and the dressmaker – Daphne spent the best part of two hours ordering the poor man about, getting him to stick pins in various places on Pansy's dress while Pansy sent him apologetic smiles whenever their eyes met. Now, she just wants a _nap_. She's tired, she doesn't care when dinner is or if the Greengrasses will judge her for skipping it; all she cares about is the fact her bed sheets are cool next to her skin and Blaise, last she checked, was downstairs with the others and therefore not likely to barge through the connecting door between their bedrooms.

She's nearly asleep when the text from Daphne ordering her up and out with the rest of them chirps her phone, sending it buzzing along the pillow.

She feigns crying, bouncing her chest and groaning as she sits up.

She wants a fucking nap.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**10.**

 

"You don't get it."

Oliver is wide eyed and large hand gestures, that level of mad as Pansy stands arms folded and tapping her very expensive looking heel off the ground. He implores, "Then explain it to me."

"I don't have to explain anything to you," she scoffs back. 

They've been arguing for about ten minutes. Oliver's face feels with hot with it. He can't remember how they got here – he can't remember what he asked, but he does remember Pansy stepping away from their table and himself following after her. He had meant to apologise but then Pansy had said. . . _something_ and somewhere between ten minutes ago and now, they'd fallen into an argument.

"You seem upset, I just want to understand why."

He steps more into her space.

Helpfully, Oliver's brain points out Pansy is the right height to kiss. And God, she fucking is – it takes Oliver two blinks and then one more after, just to be sure, before he can focus on Pansy's face properly again. Unfortunately, in all that time – and it was only a scattering of seconds – all the fight has drained out of him, but in front of him Pansy is still snapping, her shoulders raised like a cat who has puffed herself up for a fight, ready to go for Oliver's jugular with her claws at the slightest thing.

"This is neither the time nor the place to discuss why a 17 year old girl might flee the country and now not want to come home that often but please, keep pushing."

In the light, she looks like she hates him. If only for this moment.

And all of a sudden, Oliver gets it.

He sags with a sigh. Once more, his brain reminds him that Pansy's mouth is right there. Right fucking there, stained dark with lipstick and darker again as the light around them shifts from pink to red and on towards orange with the beat of the song.

He gets it.

He may not have known her in Hogwarts, not really, not beyond 'There goes Pansy with Blaise and Daphne' but he did hear things. From Potter and his friends. Which weren't always kind. And yeah, Oliver can let them away with it a little since a. apparently Pansy was saying similar things about them with her friends and b. they were only children at the time, but even the mean things Oliver heard about Draco weren't half as vitriolic as the nasty things said about her behind Pansy's back. And now Draco is married, happily, seems to have found himself a happy ending where no one but those who like to hold grudges say anything about him – shit, he's even managed to muddle together a sorta friendship with Potter himself after everything that happened between them.

But Pansy hasn't been granted the same leniency.

Sure, amongst their shared friends Oliver has heard nice things about Pansy – alright, so he missed out on the memo about Pansy living in Prague, but he has been included in conversations about Pansy's Colombian ex-girlfriend, and the time she was learning to drive a four wheel off roader and Daphne had glared daggers at Marcus when he's suggested starting a betting pool on how soon Pansy would crash it – but public favour within the British magical community hasn't been as kind.

They still talk about why she didn't marry Draco, the stories becoming grander and grander the further away from it they get.

They sneer and curl their lips about her now whenever the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts approaches, wondering if she'll dare turn up to any events, dare to show her face at something honouring those who died or just plain Harry Potter himself, when she was the one who thought they should sacrifice him.

Ten years later and they still judge her for the acts and behaviour of a teenage girl.

One she seems to have left behind.

Oliver looks at her now and understands why a 17 year old who went through what Pansy did might want to leave the country and rarely come home.

He fucking gets it.

But now he has stood here, silent in front of her for too long. Anything he tries to say now will sound stupid, like he's trying to placate her, or worse, pity her.

He's impressed by how she doesn't back down though.

Marcus finds them and his face breaks into a relieved smile. Oliver can't smile back, since Pansy can't see Marcus approaching and with everything else, smiling completely out of the blue could ruffle Pansy even more. And Oliver has to admit, he's kinda terrified of her right now. Terrified and impressed. And kinda wants to kiss her. Still. Cos that has definitely not left his mind since his brain first gave him the thought.

Marcus enters their standoff with a cheery, "There you two are," one of his arms wrapping around Pansy and the other one pulling in Oliver. He squishes them both to his chest.

Oliver lets himself smile.

"We're all good, aren't we?" Marcus asks, less of a question and more of a threat, like if either of their answers is less than a 'yes', he's going to have something to say about it. And Oliver has had enough of arguing with people tonight.

It's Pansy who says, "Of course," and when Oliver looks at her face, the smile she gives Marcus is real.

"Well, you'd better come back. Cos Theodore is currently paying the DJ to play the Macarena and Blaise is talking about ordering shots you set on fire, and I'm not sure I'll make it through without you two." He sighs, feigning helplessness.

As he turns to lead them away, Oliver looks around Marcus' shoulders and mouths an 'I'm sorry' at her.

 

+

 

There is no way on God's green fucking earth they are making it into Greengrass Manor without waking up, oh, every other person inside it, Pansy decides as she stumbles along with Blaise, his arm heavy around her shoulders.

Oliver is almost as drunk as Blaise and therefore useless in helping her keep Blaise upright, but somehow she has ended up with his assistance.

She doesn't think she asked him for it.

But she appreciates how quickly Oliver claps a hand over Blaise's mouth when Blaise starts to loudly sing. "Good reflexes," she commends, even though she hadn't meant to say anything.

Oliver shoots her a grin.

He has great teeth. She supposes most of them are fake, veneers or some shit like that after all the bludgers he has taken to the head, but this time Pansy manages to keep her mouth shut and her thoughts to herself.

"I'll get the door," she tells him.

She steps away from Blaise. And, at the same time, Oliver bends down to fix the doormat, mumbling something about, "Just to be safe, don't want him to trip."

They fucking let go of Blaise at the same time and Pansy only realises this when she has the door open. The thump of Blaise hitting the ground rattles the empty doorframe. Oliver is open mouthed and horrified when Pansy turns around – Blaise is face down in the gravel of the driveway. He groans. Then cries out in pain when Pansy tugs at his arm, trying to lift him back up. "That's my shoulder," he whines, albeit with a lot less distance between the words than he should.

His face is all dust and scuff marks. It'll be a wonderfully patterned bruise by the morning.

Pansy's initial reaction is 'Oh fuck, Daphne is going to kill me if Blaise's face ruins the photos!'

Oliver continues to look horrified.

There's no way they are getting him up the stairs.

The first door handle Pansy puts her hand on leads into a bathroom. It's a big fucking bathroom for one downstairs, a bathtub and shower installed and a seahorse shaped matt on the floor, but Pansy can't comment, just beams at the bathtub and the ability to wash Blaise's face being offered to her.

Blaise is all fucking shoulders and knees when they try to get him into the bath. It's enough of a struggle to keep him from removing his jeans without taking an elbow to the face; Pansy gets hit twice, staying still after the second knock to her chin that makes her teeth clash together in her mouth, and letting Oliver sort Blaise out.

"We can't keep him there," he states.

The dust from the gravel has settled on Blaise's face like the oddest half-face clown makeup Pansy has ever seen. It's all she can focus on. It takes her entirely too long to answer, "We aren't going to make it up the stairs."

Oliver seems to agree but he's too busy rinsing a face cloth under the hot tap to respond.

He hands it to her. 

"He's your friend."

"You were the one who dropped him."

"We _both_ dropped him," he counters, which Pansy thinks is an absolute lie, she at least warned Oliver she was stepping away before Blaise's face met the gravel in an impressive crunch, but she is too tired to argue the point further.

With her mouth turned to a frown, just to emphasise how unhappy she is about this, she wipes at Blaise's cheek.

She gets at most a quarter inch of dust off of his skin before he slaps her arm.

"It hurts," he tells her.

Oliver sits himself on the closed toilet seat.

Honestly, Pansy thinks he would be better at this. He's got all that Quidditch player muscle under his shirt, stronger arms than she has that would be better at fending off Blaise's swipes. But Oliver just looks at her like he's waiting for a show, and Pansy has to sigh and bear it.

When Blaise hits her again, this time landing the hit right on her boob and pushing the air out of her lung with a sharp 'oof' noise, Pansy deposits the wet cloth on his face and gives up with a dramatic, "Fuck off, do it yourself then."

Oliver chuckles.

Blaise is pouting when he removes the cloth from his face. "You're so mean."

"You've slapped me in the face twice and punched me in the boob once; I'm allowed give up."

And with that, she lets herself slip to the floor. Her left shoe comes off in the process. The seahorse rug is really fucking soft. God. She's not getting back up.

From the tub, Blaise asks, "Can I have a cuddle?"

Pansy looks at Oliver. He's looking right back. If he wants a staring match, Pansy can go for hours. _Really_. But Oliver blinks, one eye and then the other; he's so fucking drunk Pansy has to laugh. He gets up from his seat – it's the toilet, it's the fucking toilet and Pansy is lying on a seahorse, this is the bathroom, fuck – with the groan of an old man. "Alright," he acquiesces, and Blaise whoops softly in triumph.

Pansy takes it as a personal victory. Alright, so she had to get punch in the boob to win, but at least now she can lie on the seahorse rug in peace, Blaise is placated.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**11.**

 

Oliver's fingers touch her hair.

It's mostly an accident. With Blaise squished in beside him – alright, he's pretty much on top of Oliver but Oliver is in no mind to argue semantics – there is no room in the bathtub for Oliver's arm. So it has to flop outside of it. And it's not Oliver's fault that Pansy's head is positioned right under his hand.

Her hair is soft as fuck.

She replies, "Yeah?" like he has asked her a question. Her voice is gravelly, thick from their shared shots earlier. Oliver smiles. He keeps touching her hair. Then immediately apologises for it:

"Sorry."

"It's cool," she says, but it is missing the 'l' sound. Pansy says, "It's nice."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**12.**

 

Theodore is way too chipper and loud for Pansy to handle. To be honest, Theodore is often way too loud and too much for Pansy to handle, but right now she is lying on a rug in the bathroom and everything is so very bright when Theodore flips on the light switch.

Blaise groans from the tub.

Theodore's laugh is breathy and delighted. "There you guys are," he chirps. Pansy is going to kick him if he doesn't bring it down a few decibels. Seven. Seven decibels, yeah, that sounds about right. God, he's so loud because Theodore is always so loud. "We wondered where you'd all got to."

Just to be a next level dick, Theodore tugs Pansy's seahorse rug. She shifts with it, and Oliver's hand moves from her hair to her face.

"Why?" she whines, drawing out the vowel sound.

"Want me to join you on the floor?" Theodore asks.

Someone's elbow hits the edge of the tub, a vibrating plastic bump ringing out in the room.

Pansy would really appreciate if everyone could just _stop existing_ near her, but the world is very much against her this morning. She is halfway around the sound of a 'no' when Theodore entirely folds himself on top of her. Her mouth is heavy, stale and dry with sleep, so her words are croaky when she mutters, "Fuck, get off me."

Theodore smells freshly showered. He doesn't move, doesn't even pretend like he's trying to.

"You have," he informs her, speaking directly into her neck. His breath is hot, making her skin clammy and gross. Pansy shudders and Theodore continues, "twenty minutes to get up and get downstairs for brunch. Millicent is making mimosas."

Oliver groans. It's the first noise from Oliver this whole time and it's a sharp noise of displeasure.

" _Mimosas!_ " Theodore sing songs.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**13.**

 

Oliver is not expecting Pansy's reaction to be so positive. What he had expected to happen was something more like Pansy scoffing in his face and shaking her head, a lot more negative than the smile that spreads across her face. Pansy looks at him like he's some sort of genius and Oliver feels a swell of pride in himself rise in his chest. All he said was 'We should find someone to take Blaise's mind off Neville' and Pansy's face had lit up. Now, he says, "Really?"

"Fuck, Wood, _yes_." And she punches him in the arm.

His stomach rolls as he jerks, a wave of nausea taking over him. It doesn't stop his feeling of pride though.

Pansy says, more to herself than him, "Why didn't I think of that?"

"You're hung over."

"So are you."

That's why Oliver suggested it, honestly. Because there are two days left until his best friend's wedding and he knows they're going out again tonight _and_ tomorrow night. And, currently, the inside of his skull hurts. Mainly centred right behind the eyes. He can't fucking feel like this again, especially not when he's got to look after gold rings for Marcus and Daphne.

He tells her, "We can't do it again. Well," he corrects, " _I_ can't do it again. I'm not going to declare you can't-"

"I can't." Disgust sits across Pansy's features. "I slept on a seahorse shaped rug on a bathroom floor last night."

Oliver nods his head in agreement. She did. Oliver was next to her in the bathtub. He remembers. There are parts of last night he's never getting back but fuck, he definitely remembers the bathroom. Alright, so most of his memories of it involve dropping Blaise, putting Blaise in the bathtub, Blaise punching Pansy in the boob . . . just so much Blaise, but Pansy on the floor is there as well.

God, they _really_ can't do that again.

 

+

 

Millicent agrees to help.

Astoria hums, "It can't hurt."

Theodore laughs and thinks, "It could be fun."

And Percy declines, looking less than thrilled to be included in the mix.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**14.**

 

At dinner, in the restaurant handpicked for them by Mrs Greengrass herself, Oliver is put in the seat next to Pansy.

She keeps catching him counting her glasses of water, watching her when he thinks she isn't paying attention. Oliver keeps to water himself, but unlike Pansy, he manages to make it through his full meal while she bows out of eating in the middle of the main course, the nausea of her hangover still in her stomach. She puts down her fork and Oliver helps himself to some of her pasta.

Across the table, Daphne eyes her.

Back in school, in the hallowed halls of Hogwarts together, Daphne always had an eye and an ear out for a rumour and it would appear she hasn't got over that habit yet. Fondly, since she's too tired for anything else, Pansy rolls her eyes. Daphne wrinkles her nose and pops out her tongue.

When Oliver butts her arm with the base of his hand as she's reaching for her glass, Pansy retracts her arm like a reflex.

Percy states, "You're awfully quiet tonight, Parkinson."

It wasn't directed at him, but Theodore notes, "She slept on a bathroom floor last night."

A laugh spreads around the table. Beside her, Oliver nudges their shoulders together and gives her a sympathetic smile when she looks up at him. Pansy can't help smiling back. He looks handsome in the light. And, fuck, she is too sober to be having thoughts like that.

He turns away but Pansy remains looking at his ear and the way his hair curls around it.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**15.**

 

As it would turn out, dinner is not the best place to find Blaise someone. ( _Anyone_ , really.) At least, that's what everyone will say when they look back on this moment in the future – they will say that there was no one worth it and they unanimously decided Blaise could do better. What no one will mention is that the second they step outside the restaurant, Blaise just keels in the middle and vomits all over Percy's trouser leg and shoe. And that everyone else in the restaurant can do better than a person vomiting on the doorstep.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**16.**

 

Oliver comes around the corner to meet Pansy waving her phone slowly, her arm elevated high in the air. The rest of the house is dark. She isn't wearing trousers, just a baggy hoodie that flops loose and long on her, the hem of a tee poking out the bottom and covering the tops of her thighs.

She lets go of her phone and has to scramble to catch it when he says, "Hello." She clutches it to her chest, mouth open and startled. He didn't mean to frighten her.

"Fuck, I thought you were the bloody gamekeeper," she replies.

Oliver chuckles. "That has to be the _most_ upper class thing you've ever said to me."

"Fuck off."

"That's better," he nods.

Pansy checks her phone one last time, then, with a sigh, pockets it, stuffing both her hands into the front of her hoodie after it. She asks, "What are you doing up this early?"

He motions behind himself, at the rest of the grounds. There's dew on the grass, and the cool breeze in the air suggests it is more of an April day than the July it really is. Pansy looks soft and sleepy. Oliver speaks to her softly in kind, explaining, "I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. Went for a run."

She hums.

"Did you sleep alright?"

"Yeah, although I missed my buddy from last night." It earns him a laugh from her lips. "You? Bed better than a rug?"

Again, she hums. "I got an email from work," she explains without being asked, though Oliver was about to ask it next. "No idea how it got to me," and she pushes out a confused laugh, only one note long, "since I can't seem to get signal anywhere in there anymore. Can't get it out here either, but I didn't know that when I decided to try it."

All around them is the scent of cold, spicy pines – or spruces, or even firs, Oliver really cannot tell the difference – and he watches as she shivers. He looks down and sees her feet are bare. "Your reply will send eventually," he says, hoping to perk her up. Pansy just shivers for a second time. "They know you're out of the office now anyway, don't they?"

She shrugs.

Oliver ushers her back into the house – her shivering is starting to make him cold.

He should go for a shower. Really, he should. His tee is sticking to his back, his shoulders, his chest where he sweat through the material and made it darker, and there's a crick in his neck that he'd love to get a showerhead spray directed at. But when Pansy asks, "Want some breakfast?" Oliver stays where he is. She is too soft to be demanding, and when she asks, her words lilt around the question gently. Yet Oliver stays there, on the opposite side of the counter, and nods.

He nods.

Pansy's mouth breaks into a smile.

She finds everything she wants in a matter of minutes, opening cupboard doors that reveal exactly what she's looking for. Oliver wonders how many times Pansy rummaged through these cupboards before, Daphne by her side as they made themselves midnight feasts on sleepovers, the rest of the house as silent and still as it is now around her and Oliver.

She just looks so _soft_.

"How do you take your eggs?" She pulls down a pan from a hook on the right, stretching to reach it. It makes her hoodie ride up, revealing more of her thigh to Oliver's gaze. It is disgusting how much it distracts him, stealing his ability to answer right from his mouth. Pansy throws a look over her shoulder at him, "You can have yolks, right? Or is it egg whites only?"

He laughs. It's sweet of her to ask; sweet and utterly domestic. Oliver really should shower but he is so in the moment, sitting in this bubble of quiet domesticity where Pansy fucking Parkinson makes him eggs how he likes them and doesn't wear trousers. And can't get phone signal.

"I'm allowed yolks – it's off season."

"And yet you went for a run at dawn, like a normal non-professional sportsperson," she fires back, quick and sharp.

"I like to run," he attests.

Her response uses no words, only sounds.

He insists, "I _do_." He explains, "It clears my head." Pansy just gives back a bob of her head on her shoulders, neither a nod or a negative shake, just a movement that Oliver figures he is allowed to put his own meaning to. He wets his lips before he speaks again, watching her as she switches on the grill to make toast. "Can I tell you something?" he asks. "That I haven't told anyone else."

Pansy turns to face him, resting her butt on the empty spot at the front of the stove between the dials for the oven and the dials for the hob. She folds her arms. "Can I ask you a question about what you are going to tell me first?" Oliver agrees. "Why," and she turns to check on the eggs as they spit oil onto the sleek, black glass hob top. Oliver waits. She tries again, "Why are you telling me first, out of everyone?"

He considers it for a second.

He considers her question and then her, Pansy devoting more attention to the eggs since they have developed the nasty habit of spitting oil out of the pan. When a splash hits her fingers, Pansy puts her burnt knuckles in her mouth, and that's when Oliver answers.

He reasons, "Because you aren't going to tell anyone on me."

"You're pregnant," she slots in abruptly.

Oliver sighs but can't help laughing too. The mood had taken a serious turn – Pansy lightens it in two and a half words. "No," he gets out between breaths. "Not that; that would be easier to tell people." Pansy's attention focuses on him for a solid twenty second. Oliver lets himself look back. She folds her arms across her chest, tilting her head to check once more on the eggs. Oliver coughs and says, "It's- I feel stupid saying it."

Pansy clasps her fingers together to make a resting place for her chin, levelling her face to his. She urges, "Go on."

"I. . ." Oliver takes a breath to steady himself out. "I sort of wish I hadn't won the Cup this year."

Pansy's face remains expressionless. Oliver takes it as a sign to continue, to explain himself. He says, "It doesn't feel like I've earned it, you know? I was only traded to Montrose before the beginning of this season, it's my first year with them, and hey, end of season, here's a cup, Wood."

"You never won it with Puddlemere?"

He shakes his head. 

She turns around to check on the eggs but with a glance over her shoulder, Pansy lets Oliver know she is still listening. Oliver stares at the black granite counter top in front of him. "I was in the locker room after the last game and I was watching all the other players celebrating, these amazing players crying and reacting to winning the fucking _Cup_ and I just- I couldn't put it together in my head."

"I think that's allowed," Pansy states, then asks, "What kind of toast do you want? They usually have white and wholemeal."

"Whatever you're having," is the simplest answer, so that's what Oliver goes with.

While she tampers around with dials, reacquainting herself with the one that turns on the grill, he stays quiet. The eggs snap and spit in the pan.

Pansy turns back to him and eyes him for a second. Just a second, barely a breathe in and out, then she blinks and says, "I wouldn't worry about it. The Cup. You won, and that's great. But you also don't have to apologise for it not being with Puddlemere; they traded you."

Oliver takes the plate of eggs and toast handed to him.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**17.**

 

Pansy watches Daphne turn, preparing for what's about to happen. She knows Daphne is turning to her in an attempt to bow out of the conversation, to get them both away from another twenty minutes of twittering 50-somethings cooing to Astoria about her son and her husband and how they think it's sweet that Daphne named her _unmarried_ friend maid of honour instead of her sister because, _of course_ , a maid is an unmarried woman, it's sweet that Daphne kept the tradition.

Pansy watches Daphne turn and knows exactly how this is going to go – she has aunts, she remembers dealing with them.

Now all the aunts' attention is focused on her.

"And what about you, Pansy? Any plans to do this yourself?" one of them asks her, all pearl earrings and three gold chains, too many rings, and shockingly similar to Pansy's own aunt Lily. "Any future husband and children on the horizon?"

Another one chirps in with, "Oh yes, you must have a man tucked away somewhere in- Bucharest, was it?"

She's the only one to catch Daphne's groan; she'll tell Daphne it's fine later.

Ignoring the incorrect city, Pansy answers, "Not quite yet," just about managing to keep the smile on her face as she says it. "I deal with enough children in work every day that I don't think I'm quite ready to have them at home yet; I like the fact I can give them back at the end of the day."

Disappointed looks settle across the faces of the three women in front of her.

 

+

 

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Daphne repeats, as she motions for the barman to keep pouring, more more _more_. "I'm sorry, I knew they'd be bad but I didn't think they'd start enquiring after your uterus." Pansy just shrugs, a small smile on her lips. Leaning back on the bar, she casts her eyes around the room – Daphne's aunts have moved on, now holding Marcus, Oliver and one of Daphne's younger cousins hostage with their questions. Whatever one of them has just asked, all of the colour drains out of Oliver's face. Pansy is glad she isn't the only one. "God," Daphne says, turning around and surveying the room beside her, "I think Marcus and I owe you and Wood about five drinks each after this."

Pansy laughs.

"Yeah, something like that."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**18.**

 

"What's your fruitiest cocktail?"

The barman looks too excited. Grabbing a menu, he hands it to her with flourish and proceeds to show her every fruit based cocktail they have available. Oliver just waits; he knew this was a bad idea, handing over the choice of drink to Pansy, but Oliver isn't going to go back on his word. Especially with how delighted the barman is to be serving them.

He pours raspberries into glasses that resemble fish bowls.

"We're switching to beer next round," Oliver dictates.

Pansy snorts, pushing a laugh out of her nose. "We'll see. You're probably gonna love it." Their eyes meet. Oliver has just realised the pattern of the lights in the bar go blue, turquoise, green, turquoise, blue and back around. It makes everything feel underwater. Pansy looks good in it. "Anyway, she says, and the barman flips the switch on the blender, "it's full of fruit. It's good for you."

"I'm not drinking five."

Pansy's face tells him not to count on it.

 

+

 

Ok, so the drink is great. Pansy rattles off some name to him as she clinks the edges of their glasses together and takes a sip, Oliver following and taking another of his. It's really fucking good. It isn't too sweet – there's a sharpness to it, not too sour either, but enough that he is able to savour the differences on his tongue for a second or two afterwards. He licks his lips, then catches Pansy's gaze lingering on his mouth afterwards. He shoots her a grin. 

"Good choice."

"I'm usually good at this sort of thing."

 

+

 

If you want culpability, if you want someone to blame, Oliver will hold his hands up and throw it all at Pansy. Because when the guy – Simon, Stefan, something with an s Oliver hasn't managed to keep in his head even after requesting it from him five times – asks Pansy, "So, how long have you guys been together?" she answers almost immediately.

Oliver watches her as soon as the question is out. He watches and waits for her to laugh, to throw it back at the guy with a shake of her head and a speedy insistence that no, no, _fuck no_ , they aren't a couple. But her face remains steady. And Oliver realises she's going to say they are together. She catches his eye and there it is. There's her response, her 'yes', her 'I'm doing this to get Blaise laid and we can argue about it later' glance and Oliver smiles.

He can't quite believe it.

"Long enough," she says, and she throws in a sigh of fake long suffering.

The guy smiles.

Blaise's face says it all.

Oliver wants to laugh. He wants to react the way he expected Pansy to but can't bring himself to do it. He thinks about it and he can't, so instead he leans his forehead on Pansy's shoulder and breathes out. Her skin is soft, even if it is his nose he's touching it with.

"Cute," the guy returns.

And Oliver lets himself laugh at that.

 

+

 

Someone kisses someone first. It isn't a simultaneous move – either he kisses her first or she kisses him first. But at the heart of it all, they're kissing. Pansy's mouth smears over Oliver's. Somewhere in the future, Oliver imagines she will say he kissed her, because he crowds her backwards into the seat. At the same time, her hand comes up and wraps around the back of his head, holding him close and preventing him from moving back, so Oliver could say, if asked about it later, it was she who kissed him. There's no softness between them once they have settled into place, just the press of their mouths and Oliver deciding fuck it, they can worry about blame later, this is all about getting someone to make out with Blaise.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**19.**

 

"So, we're doing this." Pansy finishes her sentence with the sound of his name. Then, she repeats it and somehow, she manages to make it sound completely different to itself – with her mouth, she transforms the notes of Oliver's name and Oliver just has, just fucking has to has to _has to_ coax her lips back to his and kiss her. He holds her chin and keeps her angled and she whispers his name again between the fourth and fifth press of their lips. Oliver wants.

She pulls away. Her lipstick is intact. It makes Oliver stare at it. Like it is a sign that he is the only one of them affected by this. But next Pansy asks, "Are you going to take me home now?" Her lips hover over his.

He pecks them once, for good measure.

Oliver returns, "If you want."

Pansy grins, all teeth and charm. Oliver kisses her again. Because she's there. Because he can.

She doesn't answer him after she pulls away. Instead, she fishes her wallet out of her bag, extracting the two cloakroom tickets, and walks away to reclaim their coats. Oliver shivers, a shudder running through him. And grabs Pansy's handbag to follow after her.

The rest of their friends are nowhere to be found – although Pansy swears she saw Millicent on the dance floor, but Oliver kisses her again and it shuts her up – and Blaise and Simon-Stefan-something-with-an-s ditched them a while ago.

A long while ago.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**20.**

 

Pansy brings him to her room because she doesn't know where his is.

On the way towards the stairs, between kisses and knocked together noses and once or twice their teeth clashing together, the angles fucked from one of them stepping away and leaving the other one behind, they pass the downstairs bathroom. She considers pulling Oliver in there instead, completing the circle from where this all started – it began with her on a seahorse rug and Oliver cuddling Blaise, it could end there as well. But when Oliver pulls her onto the first step, Pansy neck jerks with him, mouth chasing after his, she remembers the crick in her neck the following morning after sleeping on the rug and decides yes, yes yes _yes_ , she has a bed and they're going there.

He winds himself around her on the bed, pulls her onto her hands and knees and fucks into her like that. He says her name as his hips push into her, and the responding noise out of Pansy sounds like a sob. Oliver scrapes his teeth off the top notch of her spine and she makes the noise for him again.

"Fuck," she murmurs.

God, he's good. He's so fucking good. Pansy's knees skid on the covers, her fingers clutching at the pillows, and Oliver fucks her, kissing every part of her he can reach – her shoulders, the neck, the back of her ear as revealed when her hair falls all around her face, dark and muffling the noises she's making inside it all. Her fingers move to grab the sheets and she trembles all over. Oliver pulls her hips back into his, his hands wide and hot on her skin, tight enough his nails dig in.

She pushes back into him, rolls her hips back as she leans her forehead on the bed for leverage. It makes it more difficult to catch her breath but, _fuck_ , Pansy doesn't care. She doesn't. She can't care. She just wants him to keep fucking her.

She whines and Oliver responds with a whispery, quivering, note, "Yeah." His hand slips up her skin, up her side and round her front, fingertips than palm catching a nipple before moving on. It's all the warning he gives her before he pulls her up, sitting her on his lap – her hands flail in the air until one finds his thigh, settling there. He cups her jaw, thumb pressing into her throat. Not heavy, not forceful, just there, and Pansy shudders at it.

She whines, "God."

The new angle gives her more control, lets her set the pace – it's no different from the one Oliver set – and he meets her every time. Underneath her palm she has the thick muscle of his thigh. It tightens and loosens with every move he makes; Pansy digs her nails in just to hear him pant. Reflexively, his thumb tightens on her throat but the pressure is gone as quickly as it came.

He moves her head to kiss her. It's all hot breath and gaspy little noises. His dick slips out of her and they both groan.

Pansy reaches down to _handle_ the matter and finds herself slick and wet to an embarrassing level. Oliver bumps his hips up as she touches him, making her butt bounce on him. It makes her laugh. She strokes him a few more times for it, teasing herself with the press of his head against her. He asks, "Pansy?" and when she looks back – difficult with his hand holding her head, but he lets her – she's greeted with the sight of Oliver's mouth red and wet and hanging open, her lipstick spread across his beard, some even on the tip of his nose. He looks wrecked.

"Yeah," she agrees.

This time, he bites her mouth when he kisses her. Pansy feels her hair matt to her cheek.

 

+

 

He comes and then he makes her come twice.

The first is with his fingers. Pansy is still on his lap, his dick still inside her and it takes him entirely too long to work out a rhythm for her, distracted by the feeling of her cunt spread around his dick. When it gets too much, Pansy tries to pull away and his dick slips out – _again_ – and her knees shake when she comes.

The second is with his mouth. And he goes for it barely after she's finished the first.

Oliver flips her over while she's still shaking. Pansy bats at him, her fingers loose and her hands open. 

He trails kisses down her skin, mapping out the places that has Pansy pushing up into his mouth, her back arched off the bed, until his shoulders hold her spread thighs apart. Her fingers skid along his shoulder, up the side of his neck before dropping away at his ear. He hears the thick sound of her tongue moving in her mouth, lips open to breathe in.

Oliver strokes his hand up her stomach and she grabs his wrist, locking her fingers around it.

Her thighs twitch, jerking up towards his face as his breath ghosts over her. She's wet and pink and Oliver wants to eat her out for _hours_. Above him he hears a huff. Looking up, he catches the rosy flush spread over her cheeks and the bridge of her nose, and the sigh she emits before telling him:

"You're not meant- stop staring at it."

She sounds put out and ridiculously turned on all at once.

She says, "Just like," and makes a hand movement with the roll of her wrist.

Oliver strokes his fingers over her, thumbs her clit, and asks, "Can I?"

Another sigh from Pansy and she throw, "Fuck, go for it," at him.

He lowers his mouth and kisses over her, nothing more, nothing less, and he hears Pansy lies back, relaxing into it. The muscles in her legs relax too, giving him more space between them. Tongue loose, he licks up along her cunt, stopping to flick at her clit, then dragging back down again slowly.

Pansy hitches in a breath.

Oliver hums out a noise, taking one last look up her, up the long line of her body and the tilt of her chin at the top, before closing his eyes and settling into it. Pansy shivers at the vibrations and Oliver chases them all with his tongue, tasting her. She clutches at that. He pushes his tongue in deeper, using his fingers to gently spread her more so he can get as deep as he can, nose pressed in against the rise of her pelvis, settled in just at the hair there. Helpfully, Pansy supplies, "Fuck," slow and slurred.

She doesn't go any further and Oliver chooses to drag his tongue slowly back up along her, wet and slick and loose. She shudders unintentionally but he rolls with it. At her clit, he licks harder, a little quicker on the up flick, then drags the tip of his tongue slower on the way back down.

He rolls his tongue over her. 

Then stops, trying again, drawing a circle over the swell of it as he pulls her clit a little harder into his mouth. Oliver does it again and Pansy lets him have one of the soft moans she had been trying to catch before.

He keeps going with that, slow and careful, almost considerate with it, slowly pulling her towards orgasm, until Pansy's making noises properly and Oliver's tongue is slipping along her where she's fucking dripping for him. He pulls away and her thighs shake with the effort not to follow his mouth with her hips. He smirks. He wants to ruin her. Moving his fingers, he tells her, "Fuck, you're so wet."

He takes the chance and looks up to her face once more.

Pansy is looking back.

She looks like wants to tell him to shut the fuck up, or to put his mouth back on her but instead she grips one hand into the sheets and urges Oliver on with a breathless, somewhat pathetic, "C'mon."

It is way hotter than anything has the right to be. Oliver feels his dick make a valiant attempt at getting hard again.

He returns to it, this time slipping two fingers into her, the noise of it loud and messy as fuck. Pansy pants at the ceiling.

He hears the bone in his wrist move, the same stupid click it always gives when he's got it at an angle he shouldn't, a souvenir from a bludger breaking it a few years back, but Oliver is to be happy enough to ignore it. Focusing the pressure of his mouth, a slick slide and stroke of his tongue, on her clit, he fucks her not-so-gently with her fingers, thick knuckles dragging in her and she keens to him. Her hips start pushing back in response, trying to get him deeper into her cunt and little 'fuck's leave her mouth, tripping out it would seem without her permission.

Her orgasm has her twisting to the left, her whole body going tight with it as she lets out Oliver's name on a wobbly note, long and drawn out. He moves his arm with her, following the way she takes him and trying to stop her crushing his head between her thighs.

_Jesus_.

Oliver soothes her back down with small kisses, light pecks sipped into her skin.

Pansy's chest heaves around her breathing. He moves up her body and she tells him, "I can't," as he settles above her.

He kisses her before he replies, "Don't worry," then kisses her again, "as much as I'd like to, I can't go again right now."

Pansy laughs. Oliver kisses her.

Getting into the bed together takes a bit of organising. Pansy is all but useless, rag dolled out and orgasm drunk on the covers Oliver is trying to pull over them both. It takes far too long for his liking but he manages to arrange them underneath the covers, tucking Pansy in at his side. She throws an arm over him and Oliver feels their combined sweat sticking to his skin. It bothers him a lot less than it should.

 

+

 

The others come back after they've fallen asleep. Pansy wakes to the sound of Blaise in the other room, discussing something she can't quite hear. Next to her, Oliver is a line of warmth who has stolen most of the covers. She rolls over to join him and returns to sleep.

 

+

 

When she wakes up for the second time, Oliver's mouth is closer to hers than when she was asleep. She wakes and he shifts and Pansy kisses the corner of his mouth, pulling him from half-sleep to fully awake, gently coaxing him along with the press of her mouth against him.

It's been a while – far too long, in Pansy's opinion – since she has woken up like this next to someone. Woken up and wanted them. Woken up and reached for them and knew they wanted her the same way. Now, Oliver kisses back and mumbles a sleepy greeting. She kisses it back into his mouth, soft and deep.

They end up with Pansy atop Oliver's lap, with Oliver's hands guiding the roll of her hips.

She leans in to kiss him, then breaks away to say, "You like me on top, I think."

He laugh and it rumbles through him. He pushes his hips up into her before she's full pulled up from her roll and she gasps, feeling her own breath bounced back warm off his face. Oliver laughs again. "Maybe," he agrees, a hitch catching the middle of the word. "But I didn't get to see it properly last time; it's a better view from the front."

 

+

 

When Oliver wakes for the third time, it's bright in the room where they forgot to close the curtains. He rolls away from morning streaming in the window, pulling the covers over his shoulder and expecting to find Pansy beside him. She's gone.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**21.**

 

"You missed _everything_ last night after you disappeared," Millicent informs her over the rim of her tea cup.

Pansy tries to focus on her face but the sun is catching Millicent's earring just _so_ and the glare it's throwing off hurts Pansy's eyes. Staring at the eggs in front of her rather than look at her friend, Pansy offers back, "Did I?"

"Oh God, did you ever!" And Millicent trills out a laugh. "Blaise – this is just an estimate but Daphne and I think we're right – _Blaise_ ," she repeats, "had an entire bottle and a half of vodka last night, made out with three different people, including one of the barmen, and ended up calling Neville to apologise for everything. And Neville didn't hang up on him." She puts her tea cup down next to Pansy's elbow. "But then- God, then. We were leaving, heading back here, and Percy lost it. For no reason any of us can work out. Marcus was trying to hold him back, Theodore was holding up Neville and _boom!_ Percy smacked Blaise so hard, Blaise toppled over."

Pansy raises a brow, "Boom?"

Millicent says, "You should have been there. It was a mess. Blaise starts firing back that they were only a fling, it wasn't serious, and Percy fucking storms off. It was wild."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**22.**

 

She tries to grab Oliver and apologise for this morning no less than six times but every time she gets near him, he is called away or, as he tells her on the fourth occasion, he has somewhere else to be, can they talk later? At their best friends' wedding, Pansy doesn't know when 'later' is going to be.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**23.**

 

Oliver finds her as she's trying to get rid of Draco.

The wedding was beautiful, but Oliver never expected less. He even managed to keep the rings safe for the whole thing, not even dropping them when asked to supply them by the minister. But now the whole thing is over, the speeches have been said, everyone has cried at various different points and Oliver has five minutes to spare to come and find Pansy.

She is saying, "No, thank you," when he reaches her.

Oliver passes a smile to Draco which Draco doesn't return.

"Pansy," Draco attempts.

She doesn't give him an inch. "I really have nothing to say to you, Malfoy. Thank you." It's the most hostile offering of civility Oliver has ever heard.

"I understand," Draco acquiesces, and without a word to Oliver, he walks away.

"I didn't mean to disrupt anything," Oliver says. Pansy just casts him a look from the corner of her eye. Despite it, she looks beautiful in the green lace of her dress. There's baby's breath in her hair – from the other side of the altar, Oliver couldn't work out what it was earlier – and a sprig pinned to the front of her dress. "But I did say I'd come find you later. Marcus kept finding me odd jobs."

Pansy stares at the floor, head tilted down.

"It was reassuring though, you know. That you kept trying to talk to me. I had assumed that when you weren't there this morning that we were just going to play the whole thing off as if it didn't happen. But I was wrong about that."

She remains silent.

On the dance floor, the bride's father leads the bride out for a dance.

Pansy coughs, then explains, "Daphne came looking for me before breakfast. Bridesmaids issues. I didn't want to wake you but I didn't have time to leave a note."

Oliver hums in agreement.

"I also didn't want to assume that _you_ didn't want to act like it didn't happen," she says.

"When are you back to Prague?"

Pansy turns to him, a confused frown morphing her features. It's oddly cute. Oliver offers a smile. He carries on, "Cos, when I woke up this morning alone, I had some time to myself to think. And I realised that I need a holiday." Pansy's face gives away nothing but he's sure she has the point of what he's saying. "I'm not really ready to go to back to Montrose, not with a few more weeks of the off season to go and boot camp coming in late-August. And recently I've been hearing a lot about how wonderful Prague is. So I booked flights." Her smile is small. "And, since you're there. At least, _most of the time_ you are. I was wondering if you could show me around." Her smile now reveals teeth. "Or, if you're busy, if you know anyone willing to show me around."

She returns his inquiry with a question of her own, "Would you like to dance?"  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**24.**

 

"Oh, Astoria," Mrs Greengrass coos. Astoria glares at her mother for nudging her; she's only just got Scorpius asleep, the night already very late for him. Thankfully, he stays asleep on her lap. "Look at them." Astoria follows the line of her mother's finger expecting to find Marcus and Daphne together on the dance floor – it leads towards the spot where Oliver is twirling Pansy under his arm. "I told Daphne they looked good together, I told her," Mrs Greengrass insists.

Placing a kiss to her son's hair, Astoria smiles. Sure, it doesn't make up for the fact her sister completely ignored the idea of her as maid of honour, but Astoria does have to agree that Pansy and Oliver are good together.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**_T H E  E N D_ **

**Author's Note:**

> Just when I thought I was the person who churned out 30k in two weeks, disappeared for almost two years before churning out another 30k and repeating this cycle over and over, I somehow managed to produce this outta nowhere. And it has been a delight writing about these folks. You're welcome, I guess.


End file.
